Chapter Twelve
The morning sun filtered through the towering columns of oak trees as Elizabeth stepped into the grove, and found Mr. Darcy already there. A delicate flush warmed her cheeks at the sight of him waiting so patiently.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said, inclining his head in a graceful bow.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” she replied. “Have you been here long?”
“Only a few minutes,” he confessed, closing the small distance between them to lift her gloved hand to his lips. “May I say you look most becoming this fine morning?”
“You flatter me, sir. I will grant that I am tolerable and that you may be biased in my favour. But I have spent my life in the shadow of true beauty and am well aware of my own imperfections.”
“To me, you are singularly beautiful, Miss Bennet. I shall not permit you to dismiss my compliments so lightly.” He held her hand gently, his gaze steady. His words hung between them like a promise.
“Well, then, I yield,” she conceded. She slid her free hand into the pocket of her pelisse and produced the letter she had painstakingly written last night.
“Please read this only after you leave your aunt’s house, perhaps on your journey to London.
I would not mind if you shared it with your cousin. ”
Darcy’s brow furrowed slightly with amused curiosity. “That sounds ominous. Should I be alarmed?”
“I do not believe so,” she assured him. “It will alter your opinion of my family, quite favourably, I hope.”
“I am intrigued.” He reached into his coat and withdrew an envelope of his own. “I have penned one, too. After Fitzwilliam and I depart, you will receive news from Lady Catherine that may distress you. This letter contains the true facts. Pray, say nothing of it until we meet in town.”
“Now, I am intrigued,” Elizabeth teased, tucking the envelope away.
He glanced at his pocket watch, a slight frown crossing his features. “Fitzwilliam is anxious to get on the road.” Mr. Darcy paused, turning fully to her. “May I tell you how eagerly I anticipate calling on you in London?”
“You already have,” she replied, her lips curving with warmth. “And I, too, look forward to becoming better acquainted.”
“Adieu, Miss Bennet — Elizabeth.” He lifted her gloved hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss upon her knuckles. “I shall count every hour until we meet again.”
Elizabeth watched him stride down the winding path, his figure gradually swallowed by the soft shadows of the woods.
“Oh my,” she whispered, steadying her breath while her heart fluttered like a captive bird.
Gathering her composure, she made her way to her favourite fallen log.
There, enveloped by the scent of pine and the promise of spring, she settled beneath the boughs to break open the letter, written by the man who, she now realised, was well on his way to winning her heart.
Elizabeth,
Forgive my presumption in addressing you by your given name, but this is how you inhabit my thoughts.
As you know, my aunt has long insisted that my cousin Anne and I must marry.
Neither of us harbours the slightest intention of complying with her demands.
After I departed the parsonage yesterday, Anne and I spoke with perfect candour, and our other cousin, Fitzwilliam, joined in the discussion.
It soon became clear that Anne and Fitzwilliam have long been in love and are resolved to marry.
Because Anne is of age, she does not require any formal consent from my aunt.
To that end, the three of us devised a stratagem to distract my aunt’s attention.
No doubt, in the coming days, you will hear that Anne and I have been married by special license
Elizabeth’s hand shook so violently, she nearly tore the page.
He was to wed his cousin by special license?
Hot tears sprang to her eyes, stinging them with a mixture of shame and fury, and slowly tracked down her cheeks.
How could she have been so foolish to open her heart to such a man?
She wiped her eyes and glared at the letter, still in her hand
—but take heart, the groom is Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Anne was most careful to tell my aunt only that she was marrying her cousin, leaving Lady Catherine confident that her decade-old machinations were finally bearing fruit.
She further assured her mother that she and her new husband would remain at his family’s estate in Derbyshire for three months before returning to Kent.
My uncle’s estate near Matlock lies scarcely thirty miles from my own.
Rest assured, dearest Elizabeth, regardless of what my aunt declares, it is not I who stands before my uncle, the archbishop, to exchange vows. I shall do so only once, and, God willing, an impertinent miss from Hertfordshire will stand by my side when I do.
Should my aunt discover the truth before their return, I am confident that neither you nor your cousin nor his wife will suffer anything beyond her displeasure.
Yours faithfully, Fitzwilliam
Hope, warm and bright, kindled in Elizabeth’s heart. She folded the letter and hurried back to the parsonage, her boots crunching on the gravel path. Molly greeted her at the door and took her outerwear.
“Is Mrs. Collins gone out?” she asked the maid.
“She’s in the back parlour, miss,” Molly replied with a bob of the head.
Elizabeth entered the snug back parlour to find her friend seated by a low window, her best tea service arrayed on the table. She gratefully accepted a fragrant cup of Charlotte’s favourite tea blend and, after adding a bit of milk, sank into a matching soft-cushioned chair.
“I have only just realised that I have not seen your sister today. Is she unwell?”
Charlotte’s lips curved in a contented smile. “She has made a new acquaintance in the daughter of one of our parishioners. Mr. Collins had business in the village, so he accompanied her there in order for her to have a proper visit. They should return at any moment.”
“How delightful that she has found companionship,” Elizabeth replied, raising the cup to her lips. “One can never have too many friends.”
Before they could speak further of friendship, and those they held in common from Hertfordshire, Maria and Mr. Collins entered. Tea was poured anew, and conversation swiftly turned once more to Rosings Park and the formidable Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Darcy sat in the carriage opposite Richard and Anne, forced to endure their annoying cheerfulness while he brooded over leaving Elizabeth behind. He unfolded the letter and began to read:
Mr. D,
I dare not write your full name – or mine – or that of my family, should this letter stray into unwelcome hands.
You shall have to muddle through with initials.
Picture yourself reading the society pages – only this is no idle rumour, but truth.
When next we meet, I shall supply further particulars.
Firstly, I am honoured that you desire to call upon me, and I look forward to discovering the man beneath the haughty exterior. I do hope you have not gone all stiff and proud sitting with your cousin in the carriage. He will wonder what you are reading.
Darcy consciously lowered his shoulders, aware that he had, indeed, gone “all stiff and proud” upon reading her words about his haughty exterior. Clearly, she knew him well. A surreptitious glance at Richard and Anne showed they were oblivious to his response, and he turned back to the letter.
Secondly, our family’s situation changed dramatically on the night of Mr. B’s ball.
Before the supper set commenced, Papa received an express which relayed the sad news of the death of his distant cousin.
Ordinarily, this would mean little, but his cousin was an earl whose only son predeceased him some years ago.
By right of descent – traced to the second son of our ancestor six generations past – the title has now grafted onto our branch of the family tree, and to my father.
In consequence, my father is an earl, my mother a countess, and we, the daughters bear the honorific of Lady before our given names.
As you know, my two youngest sisters are at a seminary for young ladies.
At the ball, Papa realised he needed to curb their behaviour, and as such, clipped their wings.
Beyond that, our new seat lies in Bedfordshire; we have a town house on Park Lane (seen only briefly) and three or four smaller estates elsewhere.
Our family’s ancestral estate, LB, has been leased out to a trustworthy tenant family. M, our middle sister, has chosen to remain in M-ton with our maternal aunt and uncle. J remains in London, and she and I will travel to Bedfordshire in June.
I dare say, in light of these events, your earlier belief that our “want of connections must necessarily diminish our prospects” will require some extensive revision.
Dear Lord in heaven, she had heard him say those awful words. Hurst was right. He had behaved abominably while in Meryton, siding with Caroline Bingley to disparage good, honest people. No wonder Elizabeth had refused him. It was a miracle she even spoke to him at all.
He read on:
In case you wondered, I did not lurk about in corridors, in the faint hope of hearing salacious gossip.
Most of the staff at NP are children of LB tenants, and one maid was so distressed by the slander voiced against my sister and me that she resigned rather than stay in such an ill-bred household.
My father has assured this brave soul a position at our new estate in Bedfordshire.
As you must know, a loyal servant is a treasure.
Despite our less-than-stellar beginnings, I look forward to receiving you in a fortnight. Until then, I wish you safe travels.
Yours, Lady EB
Darcy refolded the sheet of paper and gazed out as the country slid by, a newfound lightness lifting his spirits.